


albuterol

by painting



Series: Umbrella Academy [9]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Pre-Series, Renegade Brothers, Sickfic, bronchitis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-07-12 09:06:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19943632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/painting/pseuds/painting
Summary: "The last time I got sick was like eight months ago," Klaus says. Diego remembers; it was a nasty case of bronchitis, and he'd only found out about it when Klaus called him way too late into the endeavor and asked him to break into the house to steal him an inhaler from the stash in the infirmary.





	1. day

**Author's Note:**

> those fics where diego helps klaus and pretends he hates doing it........ what can i say i love them

"Can I hit that?"

The language is familiar; the context, not so much. Klaus is sure he asks for a hit of _something_ at least a dozen times a week. Drugs aren't cheap, and it's not like he's in any shape to hold down a job t help him pay for them fairly. Never has been. Luckily, strangers tend to be generous if he's charming enough.

Harriett's girlfriend Janelle looks at him with an eyebrow quirked, confused and suspicious.

"My inhaler?" she asks.

"If you'd be so kind," Klaus says.

Janelle snorts and rolls her eyes. "This isn't your kind of medicine."

"Au contraire," Klaus says knowingly. "Listen to this."

He begins to inhale so he can demonstrate to her the awful rattle in his lungs that's been there for almost a week, then ends up doubled over in a cough that scrapes up the inside of his chest, exacerbating the sharp sting and deep ache that he's starting to suspect will never go away.

"Jesus Christ," she says. "You have asthma?"

Klaus shrugs and says, "I have something."

Probably nothing serious. He hasn't been sick like this since he was eleven, but he recovered then, too, so Klaus isn't going to bother worrying. He has other things on his mind.

"You might feel better if you laid off the sticks, you know," she says with an outstretched arm. Klaus takes the device from her fingers and shakes it up and down.

"Nah, it's not that," Klaus tells her, sucking on the mouthpiece and breathing in deeply as he presses down. Relief comes immediately, and the claustrophobic feeling of tight airways all but disappears. "Oh, fuck. Sweet fucking Christ, _Madame,_ I love you. That feels fucking fantastic."

Janelle sighs. "Take a second puff. It doesn't go all the way down into your lungs the first time."

"Thanks for the tip," Klaus mumbles, then opens right back up.

"What's wrong with you?" she asks bluntly, holding out her hand with beckoning fingers.

Klaus inhales deeply as a test. It burns, but there's no cough. Awesome.

"Fuck me, who knows," he says, then regretfully passes the inhaler back to its owner. "I had a cold a week ago and now I have… this."

"It's almost winter," Janelle says to him. "Better start taking care of yourself."

"Yeah." Klaus clears his throat and watches as she turns to leave. He shakes himself out, determined to flee the premises first. "I'm great at that."

He has just enough white lightning in his system to dull the tortured spirits' wails surrounding him down to a whisper, but Ben remains as bright a presence as ever. Neither of them have been able to figure out why it's impossible for Klaus to shut him out, but it's probably good news because it'd mean that Klaus isn't individually haunted by anyone but his brother.

Ben has been matching his pace this entire time, staring Klaus down with an annoying abundance of concern every time he slowed down due to a shortness of breath. For the first time in days, Klaus is feeling almost like himself.

"Take it easy," Ben instructs as they walk through Deer Park. "You're still sick and you're going to get worse when the medicine wears off."

"So I'll get more," Klaus says. His chest still hurts terribly.

"Where?"

"I dunno. I'll find somebody."

Ben sighs. Weird that he can do that when he doesn't need to breathe. Klaus is undecidedly jealous.

"Klaus, you need to see a doctor."

"Uh," Klaus says, "no thanks."

"I'm serious."

"Oh. Well, when you put it that way."

"Klaus."

"I'm _fine,_ " Klaus says. It may not be true, but it doesn't make a difference whether he's fine or not. His only doctor's visits have been with Mom during his suffering and soldiered childhood and at the hospital following an overdose, neither of which he remembers as being particularly pleasant (the latter of which he barely remembers at all). 

It's a vulnerable position, sitting on the plastic bed with the paper strip touching his bare skin as some pretentious asshole with a degree pokes at his body and tells him to stop seeing so many dead people.

Essentially.

"Let's at least get you somewhere warm," Ben says. "I think you have a fever."

"Really? Because I feel marvelous."

"We could go to the library."

"Okay," Klaus groans. "If that'll get you to relax for the first time in your life… or whatever you want to call what you're doing now."

He needs to connect with one of his hookups soon. Klaus has a few benzos in his pocket, but that isn't going to last him very long. His usual routine of partying until he's exhausted enough to just pass out anywhere hasn't been working over the past few days-- he's been too sore and exhausted to even think about dancing _or_ to fall asleep comfortably. It's a shitty limbo to be stuck in.

Instead, he falls asleep on one of the armchairs on the third floor while Ben peacefully engages with a Greek anthology.

When Klaus wakes up, it's dark out and his chest is tight again.

"Shit," he says once he fully comes to. His throat feels like it's been grated and burned and has partially turned to ash, gritty and weak and painful. He coughs, not on purpose, and it hurts just slightly less than before.

"You were snoring," Ben tells him. "I thought someone was going to have to wake you up."

Klaus clears his throat, which, like everything else he does, just makes him cough some more.

"Thanks for stopping them," he says.

Ben turns the page. "Are you ready to see a doctor?" he asks. "We could go to urgent care."

"No," Klaus manages to say. Without looking, he can tell that the library's innocent patrons are staring at him; he's not exactly being quiet, and he knows people are scared of getting sick at this time of year. He can't really blame them. It sucks.

"What are you going to do, then? You can't stay here."

"I'll just get another inhaler. Worked like a charm the first time."

"A doctor would give you an inhaler," Ben pushes. "You sound like you can barely breathe."

"I can breathe fine," Klaus promises, "just not very hard. I'm not going to die or anything." It's weird how even the lightest vocalization presses on whatever is lurking in the depths of his respiratory system and makes it crackle back on up. He coughs again.

Ben lowers the enormous book onto his lap and says, "Will you call Vanya, at least? She'll let you sleep in her dorm for the night. I don't think you're still contagious."

"Ugh. Vanya would just take me to the emergency room," Klaus says. "Pass."

"Because you _need_ to go to the emergency room."

Klaus ignores him, but he probably does need to do something, because he's almost out of breath from having to push himself up into a sitting position in the chair. He can't make it all the way to anyone's place when he's down like this and to make a bad story worse, he can feel himself starting to sober up.

Ben's annoying, but he isn't totally useless, and his pitiful suggestion does at least give Klaus an idea. He heads toward the pay phone on the east wall with enough change in his pocket to do some good for himself.

"Who are you calling?" Ben nettles. Klaus wishes he would just give it a rest already and let him live his life. He's going to do that anyway. "Not Diego. He's almost as big of a train wreck as you are, Klaus."

"Exactly." Klaus grins and begins to turn the dial. "That's why he's the most flawless emergency contact I could have possibly chosen."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part of me is like i wonder how many fics i'll write where klaus gets sick during his vagabond life and someone is around to help him as much as he'll let them. but the other part says i'm sure it happened more than once!


	2. dusk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if i could just write 50 page long phone conversations you know i would

Al is surly when he knocks on the entrance to Diego's apartment.

"I finished two hours ago," is how Diego greets him once he answers the door. "That was our agreement; I get nights off."

"I'm not your secretary, Hargreeves," is Al's pitted response.

Diego stares, wondering for a second whether Al is speaking in a code he has yet to learn. He hates acknowledging it, but there are a few gaps in his and his siblings' street smarts, even now, as a souvenir of their childhood regime.

"What are you talking about?"

"Come upstairs. You have a phone call," Al clarifies. "Stop telling people to call here. We pay you under the table, you're not supposed to be giving out this number."

Without offering confirmation nor denial, Diego follows him into the office in the back of the gym.

"Hello?" he says, gruff and cautious, making tentative eye contact with Al in hopes that someone had the wrong number.

_"Diego!"_

His blood runs cold. Never mind. 

"What is it, Klaus." He waves his hand to shoo Al out of the room. Al holds his hands out to the side with his palms facing the ceiling to convey his offense, so Diego repeats the motion and Al finally retreats.

He can explain later. These calls can be wild and personal, and Diego would rather his employer know as little about him as possible. Klaus only calls when he wants something or is in trouble.

 _"I'm sick,"_ he announces. _"Can you do me a quick favor?"_

Or both.

"You're sick?" Diego repeats.

 _"Not in the way you're thinking,"_ Klaus says. His voice sounds funny. It's hushed, which is odd coming from him no matter what, but his usual dynamism and smarmy affect radiate loudly through the speaker.

"What does that mean? Did you smoke something?"

 _"Well, yes,"_ Klaus admits, _"but not for a few days, actually. That's what I was getting to."_

"Okay," Diego prompts.

 _"Yeah, so listen to this,"_ Klaus says, and then he unleashes the ugliest cough Diego thinks he has ever heard. It sounds like it's coming from somewhere deep in his chest, a barking rattle that rakes at his throat and flays his vocal cords, wet and aggressive and no doubt incredibly painful. Appallingly, his lungs whistle at the end.

"What the fuck?"

 _"I know,"_ Klaus says, too enthusiastic for someone who's been dragging around that kind of body-draining cough, but with much more exhaustion than Diego's used to hearing from him regardless. It makes sense. _"Isn't that insane? I can barely breathe. So can you help me out?"_

"What's wrong with you?" 

_"Ugh!"_ Klaus scoffs. _"Why does everybody keep asking me that?"_

"Because you have a fucking swamp in your lungs, Klaus, it's a fair question."

 _"I don't know!"_ Klaus coughs again, though thankfully not as harshly as before. _"I was sick last week and it just… grew up, or something. Evolved to the next level."_

"Did you take any medicine?" 

_"What do you think?"_

Right. Stupid question. Well, "Did you take anything to make it worse?"

 _"Did I…? Uh. Yeah, probably."_ Klaus doesn't give Diego a chance to tell him off for that. It wouldn't matter. He knows it's wrong, and Diego can't understand why he would still do it. _"So can you go to the infirmary at Dad's and grab me an inhaler? Mom keeps them in the upper cabinet to the right of the sink. I remember."_

"I'm not going back there, man," Diego refuses. The risk of running into Dad or Luther isn't very high after dark, which is part of why Diego likes being up so late even now, but any risk is too much risk when you're trying to rid yourself of a place like that.

 _"Well_ I'm _not going back there!"_

"Klaus, just go see a doctor."

Klaus sighs and says, _"Seriously? Would_ you _see a doctor, Diego?_ Hello, _of course you wouldn't."_ That's true. _"I can't believe you're passing up the opportunity to steal from Dear Old Dad. I'd normally be the guy for the job but could you imagine if Mom heard me coughing? I'd be done for, Diego. And if I had to run away I'd be toast. My lungs just aren't up to the task."_

"How the hell did you let it get this bad?" At this time of night, Diego could probably take a shortcut down the alley behind Monroe and cut five minutes off the trip.

 _"I dunno, I just got a cold and it didn't go away."_ Or maybe if he makes an illegal Left on South Boulevard he can avoid the one-way traffic on Monroe altogether. _"I had other shit going on."_

"Where do you even catch something like that?"

He can't park out front, though, or behind the house near the fire escape. That could be a problem.

 _"You know, it really could've been anywhere,"_ Klaus muses. _"I am a man about town, after all. I shared a bowl with this guy around Halloween, maybe he gave it to me? He said his roommate had the flu. Oh! Or maybe it was this lady I hung out with the day before that, she said she was a nanny…"_

"Just-- just be more careful," Diego says. He could probably get away with parking by the fire hydrant down the block if he puts his flashers on. "You know it's not my job to keep saving your ass, right? You're not my responsibility, Klaus."

 _"Sure I am,"_ Klaus says. _"We're brothers. You have to do stuff like this."_

"Where are you right now?"

_"Let's meet at your place."_

"No. Where are you?"

_"Let's just meet at your place."_

"Why?"

_"Still at the same old haunt, I presume?"_

"Are you going to sleep here?"

_"Oh. Well, if you insist. I wouldn't want to impose."_

It's hard to tell when Klaus is being manipulative and when he isn't even bothering because he knows Diego will give in. It's gotten to look something like meta-manipulation, at this point, and for some reason it still has yet to stop working.


	3. dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have this disease where i think a fic is finished and then i just keep writing more and more parts

Klaus looks skinnier each time Diego sees him.

He's waiting at the side entrance of the gym, leaning against the brick wall and mumbling to himself with his eyes focused on something that isn't there. He's wearing a long coat that isn't buttoned and an even longer black scarf that he hasn't actually wrapped around his neck. It hangs loosely all the way down to his hips, shimmering orange from the street lamp in front of him, edges hemmed and pristine. His cheeks are gaunt and sallow, and his hair is a tangled, curly mess of a bird's nest.

"Diego, buddy!" he cries weakly. Coughing like that has absolutely shredded his throat; his voice sounds worse in person than it had on the phone. It sounds like he's going through puberty, and it might be easier on him if he didn't keep trying to yell, but Klaus has never been one for self preservation. "You get the stuff?"

Diego looks from side to side and says, "Cut it out. You're making this look like a drug deal."

"If only," Klaus says. A wistful sigh takes a wrong turn into a rough and erratic bout of coughing.

As he passes Klaus to unlock the door, Diego pats him on the back a couple of times, just below his right shoulder blade. It doesn't seem to help.

"That cough sounds fucking awful," Diego says. "And you're not sleeping at night either."

"Maybe you're the real psychic," Klaus replies in a pathetically wispy voice. His airways squeak as he exhales. "I took a lovely nap earlier this afternoon, however, for your information, with the help of someone else's prescription inhaler. So if you wouldn't mind…"

"Yeah. Hang on."

Diego lets Klaus follow him to the bottom of the steps, then reaches into his pocket to present his stolen relief. Klaus kisses the inhaler when Diego hands it over.

While he's shaking it, Klaus asks, "You see anything special over there? Dad put up another shrine in the living room? Murder any more exotic, endangered animals to hang on the walls?"

"I wasn't really paying attention," Diego says. He watches Klaus snap the cap off and take in a couple puffs of medicated aerosol, chest and shoulders moving out dramatically with each breath. "Uh, I don't think you're supposed to take that much at once."

Klaus sighs out magnificently after a moment, joyously deflated, and puts his palm to his forehead like he's modeling for an old Victorian panting.

"Jesus Christ, it's like I've been breathing through a straw." Klaus moves his chest in and then out, sans the whistling this time, thankfully. "Thanks for the hook up, Robin Hood. Would you like a hit, perchance?"

Diego can't tell if Klaus is joking, but he pushes his brother's hand away regardless and says, "And catch your germs? I'm good, bro."

"Jeez, _fine,_ suit yourself. But it feels amazing," Klaus says as he taps the instrument against the outside of his thigh.

"Feels amazing if you've already got a chest infection, you mean," Diego corrects. Then, because Klaus isn't going to tell him on his own, he asks, "Is anything else the matter with you?"

"Depends on what you mean."

"You know what I mean."

"I just feel so _sick,_ " Klaus admits, which is a surprise, though sometimes he's intentionally transparent when he has his eyes set on a goal. Diego can't quite tell whether he has an aim in this instance or not. "My head feels tight and I still can't breathe through my nose, and I haven't slept in… oh, I don't know, four nights? Five? I either wake up after a couple hours or I can't even doze off at all." Diego believes that. Klaus sighs and just coughs twice, throwing his body over the table and lying his head on his arms. "But aside from that, Diego, I'm just terrific."

Diego starts setting up the couch and just lets him vent, cautious of saying too much. Sometimes Klaus just likes to talk and it's wisest not to indulge him. "You cold?" he asks.

Klaus hums a negative. "Just got the shakes from the medicine. It's normal."

"I don't think that's normal."

"It is," Klaus promises. "Happened to me when I was a kid, too. Ben remembers."

"If you say so."

"I'm getting a glass of water."

"Yeah, good."

Diego's heart sinks when he hears the discreet rattling of pills following the sound of the faucet. 

"That's not a sleeping pill," he guesses.

"More or less."

Diego doesn't bother. Maybe he would have a couple years ago, but everyone's past that point now. They all know better.

Klaus is still taking experimental deep breaths, almost like he's daring his lungs to act up again so he can take in more of the medicine. The wheeze is mostly gone. Diego vaguely recalls Klaus coming down with something like this a couple of times before, and it's no wonder it's happening again, really; someone like him, who sleeps poorly and doesn't eat right or dress for the weather, is bound to run into some health complications every once in a while-- not to mention the effects of all of the poison he puts in his body every day. 

Even then, something about the fact that Klaus spends a lot of time outside and makes Diego suspect that the cold air was the straw that broke the camel's back this time.

Klaus rips a paper towel off of the roll on Diego's kitchen card table and blows his nose. It sounds like he's been needing to do it for a while. When Klaus gets sick he tends to stay sick for a while, residual sniffling lasting several days after the rest of his symptoms have faded and a cough dragging out even longer than that.

But the symptoms of a cold usually become milder as he shakes it off, even if it does take some extra time for him to do so. The difference here is that he sounds like it's settled in his system this time, and it's not going anywhere unless Klaus slows down and stays put. That hasn't been an option for him for years, despite his siblings providing him with opportunities.

"Couch is ready."

"How lucky am I to have a sickbed so glamorous."

He shuffles over and almost trips twice. Diego can tell from the clicking in his sinuses that Klaus isn't going to sleep soundly, and that's going to keep him up all night.

"If you kick me out into the cold," Klaus says, burrowing down into the flannel quilt Diego left on the couch, "I could die. And we don't know if my powers work in reverse, but if they do, I'll haunt you forever. I'll haunt your ghost's ghost. You'll be really sorry, Diego."

"Better not get on my nerves, then," Diego says plainly. He organizes the collection of weapons on his desk until Klaus noisily falls asleep.


	4. dawn

Klaus and his cold keep Diego awake for most of the night. 

Needless to say, it's not on purpose. He'd rather not be choking on a chest infection, as would most people but the world is cruel and to nobody's surprise, its Grand Creator has apparently got it out for Klaus Hargreeves in particular. Always has. His throat is killing.

"Why don't you cough like this when you smoke? I don't get it," Ben says casually, probably because he's bored.

Klaus keeps coughing, of course, instead of answering right away. Ben can wait until the little feathers in his airways stop brushing against their linings. Eventually, Klaus gets a second of reprieve and mumbles, "Because I'm supposed to smoke. The universe wants me to smoke. Hey, maybe this is punishment for not smoking."

His voice is practically gone, so Diego probably doesn't hear him. Ben does, though, and doesn't indulge him with a response, even though he was the one who started the conversation in the first place.

Klaus once heard that illness is supposed to get worse at night. He doesn't remember who told him about that or if he maybe read it in a book, but during his viral excursions over the years, he's found it to be mostly true. There's something about lying down that makes all of the congestion shift around and start to suffocate him, which feels pretty horrible and gets him all worked up, which is probably what makes him cough more. At the present, any other lingering symptoms feel dull and nonexistent in comparison to the ache in his chest and sting in his throat, but he knows they're still there, waiting for him to go back to sufferably noticing them as soon as the fit dies down.

Diego stirs in his too-small claustrophobic corner bed. He's probably regretting letting Klaus crash here for the night. Most people would, but he's already picked his poison.

"Klaus, oh my God," Diego finally says.

"Yep," Klaus whispers. He clears his throat. "Now you see what I mean."

"Can't you take, like…? I don't know, some Mucinex or something?"

"That's going to keep everything suppressed in your lungs," Ben comments. "You'll get sicker."

Klaus relays, "Ben says it's a bad idea. But what does he know."

"Ben says--" Diego repeats, exasperated. He hums. "What about the inhaler?"

"Works great," Klaus says. He means it; he's breathing a lot better, in one respect, but his nose is so stuffed up that it almost cancels it out, and breathing through his mouth only irritates his throat. It's so sensitive that even the air tickles it and puts him right back where he started. "My _airways_ are big enough, but there's still a bunch of, uh, what did you call it? Swamp water inside of me."

Diego speaks to the ceiling. His own voice is gravelly, but that's by choice. "All right. Get up."

Klaus sighs. "You're _really_ kicking me out right now?"

"Jesus Christ, Klaus, what the fuck? No, I'm not kicking you out. Jesus." He sounds offended. Whatever. Can't blame a guy for asking. "But neither of us is getting any sleep, so we might as well get something hot into you and see if it helps."

Klaus keeps the blanket wrapped around his shoulders as he folds himself upright, then pitches forward to cough some more. He pats at his chest when he's done, clearing his throat to maybe loosen whatever is bugging him in there, an attempt borne from his waning foolish optimism.

Slowly, he puts on his coat, leaden arms pushing through its thick sleeves like sludge. Diego tosses his scarf at him and it lands draped over one of his shoulders. It isn't very warm, but it looks cool, and it feels better to keep his neck warm because it feels like he's holding it in place.

"People are going to be looking at us," Klaus warns as he slips on his shoes.

"It's three in the morning." Diego opens the door and ushers him out. "No one's there for a normal reason right now. They have no room to judge."

There's a very specific, exhausting feeling that comes with sitting in a diner after it's dark out. The squeak of the plastic cushions lining the booths is shrill and continuous, and Klaus realizes that the table's surface is sticky when he lays his head down. It's probably not such a considerate idea to allow himself to breathe all over the space people eat off of, but he's tired and has been surviving only on micro naps all week and it wasn't his idea to come.

It's not the first time he's been to a place like this with Diego, especially so late at night, and most of the patrons at this hour are either teenagers thriving on the energy that comes from the novelty of being out in the world without your parents, burnt out night shift workers and travelers, and drunks and insomniacs such as himself-- but probably for different reasons.

"I cannot believe how sick you are," Diego murmurs judgmentally into his menu. Klaus peeks up at him through his eyelashes, glares, and then looks back down into the darkness beneath his arms. The sleeves of his coat are probably going to come away oily once he sits up to eat. He'll have to pitch it and find a new one.

"At least the dark circles under my eyes make me look mysterious," Klaus says. "Like, in a sexy way, don't you thi-ink?"

He stutters the last word out because speaking tickles his throat too much for him to finish a sentence without coughing, so he bends his head down and lets his shoulders shake with its power.

"You've got to stop that. It hurts to listen to you," Diego tells him.

"It hurts to be me," Klaus replies. He's aware of how pathetic it sounds in the whispered sands of his voice.

"Hi," Diego says.

Klaus turns his head and looks up again, confused, until he makes eye contact with the waitress. With limp and half-hearted energy, he waves a hand in her direction.

She smiles and says, "Rough night, honey?"

"Nothing a little breakfast can't fix," is Diego's gliding response. He's so smooth when he talks to people; it's a pity his life is so boring.

She must be a Mom with a capital M, Klaus realizes quickly, because he can barely rasp out a word before she's excitedly insisting on bringing him an enormous bowl of chicken soup that he's absolutely certainly sure he isn't going to be able to finish on his own (and he doubts Diego will share).

He tries to hold off on coughing until she leaves the table, but it growls out of Klaus anyway and Diego has to order his drink for him. They don't serve alcohol here, which Klaus hates because the escalating volume of a dead person's screams is going to give him a headache if he doesn't get _something_ into his desperate system soon, since whatever he took at Diego's is wearing off fast. And as much as Klaus likes Earl Grey, it's not going to fuck his mind up enough to help him tonight.

While Klaus normally relishes most forms of touch, even from strangers-- well, mostly from strangers, because he takes what he can get-- the way the waitress rubs his back before she leaves is overstimulating when combined with the horrors of his returning power and the pain in the front of his chest.

"I can't believe you ordered coffee," he croaks to Diego once they're alone again.

"I might go out after this," Diego explains. "Let you cough in peace for a while. I'll sleep tomorrow."

"Okay," Klaus says. He probably has enough cash to get himself a joint if he can find someone on this side of town. He'll have to buy the full piece because he doubts anyone will share with him at this point.

Klaus usually doesn't mind that Diego isn't a big talker, since he's good at filling silences himself and pulling reactions out of people, but he's going to lose his voice in just about five seconds and can't rely on Diego to carry a conversation on his own. He takes another hit from his best friend the rescue inhaler and lets Diego sip his coffee in the quiet while Klaus naps on the table.

Somehow, fifteen minutes feel like several hours, and his eyes feel a little brighter when the waitress sets a hot ceramic bowl next to his head. It clatters loudly in his ear and he startles awake.

"Sorry, honey," she says. "This'll do you some good. Family recipe."

Klaus shrugs and slowly, sleepily downs almost half of it, and Diego doesn't bother boxing it up as they leave. Diego isn't happy when Klaus breaks the news that he has to split, but the food at least gives him the energy to finish off a deal in the alley two blocks from the gym before the sun comes up. 

Six days go by. He starts feeling better.


End file.
